October 31, 2011 1 Comment
Take a peek at our Halloween photo booth shots…if you dare.
Hope everyone is having a hauntingly good Halloween!
A Small House With A Big Presence
October 27, 2011 3 Comments
It’s the last full week of Ah!-Tober, and I like to think that we saved the best for last! Author Bill Vaughan once said, “We hope that, when the insects take over the world, they will remember with gratitude how we took them along on all our picnics.” If creepy crawlies creep you out, then have I got the book for you… and you’ll just have to keep reading to find out if the spiders are grateful. The larger-than-life, intelligent, pseudo-psychic spiders in Sarah Pinborough‘s Breeding Ground truly epitomize my greatest fears about bugs! Pinborough creates an atmosphere perfect for hostile takeover. So it’s my #1 must-read for Halloween! Read on… if you dare! Tune in tomorrow, as we have a great interview with Sarah, and we’ll be giving away a copy of Breeding Ground to one lucky commenter!
I wish I could tell you that I saw lights in the sky. Or shooting stars that turned out to be alien spaceships falling to earth. That’s how Armageddon stories normally start, isn’t it? Some great portent signaling the oncoming doom, some clue that They have done this to us, whether the guilty party are the Russian They, the American They, the British They, or the all-time favourite, the They from outer space.
I don’t know why it started. I don’t know if it was the work of the government, a visit from space or an act of God. If I had to put money on it, I’d pick the first option; after all, they never stop adding chemicals to food and there was always going to be payback. But at the end of the day, I don’t know why it started, and even if I did it wouldn’t make a damned bit of difference now, would it?
My name is Matthew Edge, and at some point last year, the end of the world as we know it started. And I figure my version of events is going to be as clear a record as anyone’s, so here goes. I hope that you’ll read this through to the end. I hope there’s a you out there to read it, and hell, I hope that I’m still alive when you finish, and I hope I get to shake your hand adult to adult, once you’re born and grown into a person of this new world. Hope is all we have, after all, isn’t it? Some things will never change.
“I can’t believe it! I’ve put on three pounds!”
When Chloe called out from the bathroom I was still in bed, lazily enjoying the extra half an hour I had left before work pulled me into the outside world. I grinned at her indignant exclamation. She was hardly what anyone would call fat. Huffing, she padded back into our bedroom, dressed in only her knickers. She looked perfect to me, all slim curves and soft skin. Pulling the pillow next to me under my chin, I raised an eyebrow.
“Oh no, not a whole three pounds.”
She flashed her dark eyes. “You’re not funny, you know, Matt.” A familiar twitch in her chin betrayed her humour. “That’s five pounds I’ve put on in two weeks. God, at this rate not even my underwear will fit me in a month.”
“Now that’s a thought.” And it really was an image that sent tingles down my spine. We’d been together for five years, outlasting all our friends’ twentysomething relationships, and at the ripe old age of twenty-nine the sight of her naked body was still a glorious thing to me. To most men, I’d reckon. She was way too good for me, but until she noticed I had no intention of telling her. I ran my eyes over her. “Hmmm. I can just imagine you in a nice executive business suit with nothing on underneath. Except perhaps hold-ups.”
A flying bra hit me in the face. “Don’t you ever think of anything else?”
“I try not to. I am a man, after all.”
She tucked her blouse into her skirt and smiled. “You certainly are. You’re my man.”
“Come here and give me a kiss, then.”
She perched on the bed and I pulled her forward, ignoring her shriek and then giggle of protest as I rolled her underneath me. Her skin was glowing and as yet free of makeup. She looked gorgeous, smiling up at me with all that love, her hair spread out beneath us on the rumpled bedding, and my heart tightened.
“I love you, Chloe Taylor.”
She touched my face. “I love you too, Matt.”
I kissed her and she kissed me back, our tongues meeting, mine no doubt tasting of sleep and hers of toothpaste, but still within a second or two I could feel myself hardening. Still exploring each other’s mouths as if they were new territory, I tugged at her blouse, needing to feel her naked skin.
“What are you doing? I’ve got to get to work. I’ll be late.” Panting the words, she made an attempt to wriggle free, but it was only halfhearted.
Her shirt undone, I kissed her slim stomach, mumbling my reply. “Yeah, but I won’t. And anyway, I’m thinking of you. What better way to work off those extra pounds?”
We smiled through our kisses and then made love. To my hands and touch there was no sign of any extra weight, not that I’d have cared. Not then. It was beautiful. I got to work five minutes late and she must have been half an hour behind time, but I’ll tell you one thing: we were both smiling on arrival.
Often at night, that flash of memory still runs through my head, painful and sharp. I don’t mind, though. I think it’s important to try and remember Chloe like that. Like she really was. Before everything that came after. Yeah, for others it may have started earlier, but for me that day signaled the beginning of the end. I digress.
Back then, all fourteen months ago, when work and money were what counted in the world, I was a mortgage advisor for a small estate agency on Stony Stratford High Street. It was family-owned, which was its saving grace, and although I’d started out selling houses, Mr. Brown had soon seen that I’d want to move on and he pushed me to learn about mortgages and take over that side of the business. Seems funny to think about now, all that time sitting behind a desk calculating figures to see what people could afford, not ever suspecting that none of those loans would be getting paid back in full, and in the future that was fast approaching, there wouldn’t be any banks left that would care.
The job paid quite well, I didn’t have to travel far and I was content. I’d worked there since I was twenty-two, and although I occasionally felt bored and restless, I wasn’t ambitious enough to move on. It was Chloe who had the big plans and dreams and the drive to fulfill them. She was already making a bit of a name for herself on the local legal circuit as a barrister to look out for, and her salary was more than double mine.
All that and six months younger than me, but I can honestly say I didn’t care. I was proud of her. I wanted her to be happy, and as far as I could tell her work and me did that for her, and that alone made me the luckiest man alive.
We lived in a renovated cottage at the top end of High Street, close enough to walk to all the restaurants and pubs the old coaching town had to offer without either of us having to drive. We would sip wine and beer and laugh together about the days behind and ahead. As lives go, it wasn’t a bad one. We had village life on the edge of a thriving new city, and London was only forty minutes away on a train, just in case we felt like trying to regain our early twenties. We were settled, and that may sound dull to some people, but then I suppose they never had the good luck to settle down with Chloe.
When I got in that evening at six, she was already home, sitting on our oversized, overindulgent sofa, her legs tucked under her, thick Mediterranean hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looked about sixteen, and that made the thoughts running through my head barely legal.
Undoing my tie and top button, I sat down at the other end. “Hey, gorgeous. You’re home early.”
Her eyes flicked momentarily at me and then back to the exposed brick wall above the fireplace. “I didn’t feel well. I came home early. I wasn’t in court this afternoon, so it didn’t really matter.”
She did look tired and pale, and I stroked her hair.
“You work too hard, babe. Why don’t I get you a glass of wine and run you a hot bath?”
“That won’t change it.” She let out a weary sigh. “I went to the doctor on my way home.”
Shuffling in closer, I felt the tension coming from her slim frame, and my heart tightened. Sometimes late at night, when she was sleeping curled up in the crook of my shoulder, I would quietly wonder when it was going to go wrong. It was too good, you see. She was too good for me, and what we had was too special. Maybe everyone in love feels like that, but when it’s a first love that lasts, you can’t help but wonder what may come along to destroy it. She’d been to the doctor. Doctors meant sickness. How ill was she? My mouth dried as a wave of suggested diseases flooded my brain.
“What’s the matter?”
She looked at me and sniffed, her brown eyes impenetrable. Her bottom lip quivered as she spoke.
I’m pregnant. The world spun on its head for a moment, then froze as I tried to take it in. The words punching the air from my lungs, the best I could manage was a half-breathless laugh, my flesh tingling at every pore as I stared, no doubt with my mouth half-open and looking like a dribbling idiot, at her beautiful face.
“What?” At last I squeezed out a word. Not a particularly clever or appropriate one, but it was the best I could do, sitting there on the leather sofa, a month or so away from thirty and feeling like a big kid with my heart pounding too hard against my chest.
“I’m pregnant.” Tears welled up, threatening to spill onto her cheeks. “And scared.”
I could feel tears pricking at the back of my eyes, too, and as soon as I could get my body to do as I wanted I pulled her closer to me. “What are you scared for? You’re pregnant.” I paused for a moment, needing to say the words to make it real. “You’re pregnant.” Real was good.
The grin on my face stretched until it almost hurt.
“You’re going to have a baby.” I paused again. “We’re going to have a baby.” I laughed out loud. “We’re going to have a baby, Chloe.” The giggles wouldn’t stop and I sat there chortling to myself. “That’s fantastic!”
Staring at me, she pulled back slightly. “Are you sure about this? Are you sure you’re happy about it? I thought you might…well, I thought you might want me not to have it.”
For a moment, the fear crept back into my heart. I’d never really thought about children, not in any imminent way, but now that circumstances had overtaken planning I knew that I wanted this baby to come. It would cement everything that we had. But maybe she didn’t feel that way. After all, it was a bigger step for her. It was she who had the big career ahead of her. Maybe she felt that her job was more important than a baby right now. The laughing stopped.
“Why? Don’t you want to keep it?”
She smiled hesitantly, flashing her perfect white teeth. “Yes, yes, of course I do, I was just worried you might think it was too soon, that we should be married or—”
My mouth silenced hers and we kissed until the gentleness turned to passion right there on the leather, our child only a few weeks old inside her, our perfect day ending as it had begun.
October 26, 2011 Leave a comment
There’s nothing I like better in a good Western than a battle of wits, where the stakes are life and death and you’re praying right along with the protagonist that luck is on his side. Kent Conwell weaves just such a story of deception and mystery in Days of Vengeance. With the following preview, you’ll meet the players and the stage is set for what is sure to be a showdown. But just who’ll come out on top, and at what cost…well, it’s too early to call.
Ben Elliott clutched the wound in his shoulder, gritting his teeth against the searing pain. He could feel the warm blood seeping between his fingers. He lay motionless, gasping for breath and peering through a tangle of brittlebush and scrub mesquite at the big man wearing a Union blue uniform. A thick black beard covered the hombre’s face. His kepi was pulled low over his forehead, and a black eye patch covered his left eye.
A cruel grin twisted the renegade’s lips when he spotted Ben. He raised the muzzle of his six-gun and settled the sights on Ben’s forehead.
The wounded Confederate tried to crawl away, but his muscles refused to move. Without warning, the six-gun roared and an orange plume burst from the muzzle.
* * *
The blast of gunfire yanked Ben Elliott from a sound sleep. He stared groggily into the darkness above, reliving the same dream that had haunted him since the war; only this time, it was even more vivid.
Another sharp spatter of gunfire followed by the frightened bawling of cattle jerked him out of his bunk. The rumble of thundering hooves shook the ground.
This was no dream.
Clad only in his red long johns, he grabbed his .44 Colt and raced outside, anger and frustration washing over him. Shadows filled the valley below, flowing across the lighter background of the meadows—thick, dark shadows punctuated by yellow muzzle blasts. He started to throw off a couple slugs, then realized that some of his own nighthawks might be down there trying to turn the stampede.
Charlie Little stumbled to a halt by Ben’s side. “How in the hell they get past our hawks, Ben?” His words formed a frosty question in the chilly night air.
Ignoring Charlie’s question, Ben spun and raced for the barn. “Who in the hell knows,” he shouted over his shoulder.
The rumble of the stampede grew fainter.
Moments later, the two men, bareback astride their ponies, cut across the broad meadows and down into the valley. The pale starlight barely illumined the ground at their feet, but they had no trouble following the thundering herd.
Ben felt an icy hand squeeze his chest when he realized the direction the rustlers had pushed the herd. Suddenly, he knew the answer to one of the questions that had puzzled him since the rustling began some months earlier.
Charlie pulled his roan up beside Ben and yelled over the pounding of the hooves. “The bluff. They’re driving the cattle to the bluff.”
Ben leaned over his pony’s neck and the strong animal bunched his muscles and leaped forward.
Abruptly, the gunfire ceased, but the thunder of the stampeding herd continued to shake the ground and stir up smothering clouds of choking dust. Ben grimaced and dug his bare heels into his dun’s flanks, driving the large stallion hard, trying to force his will on the laboring animal. He leaned forward, laying his hand against the dun’s lathered neck in an effort to extract every last bit of speed from the gallant pony.
Less than two miles ahead, the meadow ended at the edge of a six-hundred-foot drop to a rocky canyon below.
The dust thickened. The thundering grew louder. The two cowpokes were closing the gap, but as they swept past an ancient, twisted bristle cone pine near the end of the valley, Ben knew they could never reach the herd in time.
* * *
Even in the shade of the front porch of the Slash Bar, the early afternoon breeze was scorching, the chill of the autumn night burned away by the blazing sun. John Wills chewed furiously on the wad of tobacco. He glared at the three men before him, then focused his fiery eyes on Hank Ford, a middle-aged rancher whose body had gone to fat. That Hank had come to prefer good food to hard work was no secret.
The gray whiskers on Wills’s jaw bristled as he shifted the chaw of tobacco into one cheek so he could speak. “There ain’t no way I’m selling the Slash Bar, Hank Ford. You got cockleburs for brains if you think I’m giving up ever’thing I worked for.”
Hank Ford hitched his gun belt up over his belly and glared back at John Wills. “Reckon that’s up to you, John. That band of rustling Comancheros is going to rob us blind.” He looked at Chester Lewis who was squatting next to the front door staring at the plank porch beneath his feet. “What about you, Ches?”
Chester Lewis, a lanky, dried-up Rebel who came to Arizona Territory to start anew after the War of Secession, shifted his squat from one foot to the other and shrugged. “I … I don’t reckon I can say. I ain’t really thought that much about it.”
J. Albert Barnett, a giant of a man dressed in a hand-tailored suit, was as out of place with the other three ranchers as a crib-girl in a church choir. His polished shoes reflected the sun, and his plate-size hands held his western hat, a solid white Stetson, his one concession to the blistering Arizona sun.
Barnett had listened patiently to the discussion, his face a mask of amused tolerance. “That’s smart, Ches. A man shouldn’t make hasty decisions he might later regret.”
Jowls flopping, Hank Ford shook his head adamantly, and his belly popped back over his gun belt. “Ches, you and John there is askin’ for trouble. We all been hit two, three times by them rustlers. If Pickett and Weems was here, they’d tell you the same thing. We’re crazier than popcorn on a hot stove to try and hang on.” He paused and looked to the south across the grassy pastures and tall pines. “Where’s Ben? I thought he said he’d be here. After all, he’s been hit harder than any of us. How much has he lost, a hundred, two hundred head?”
John Wills grunted. “Thereabouts.”
“And you, Ches. At least seventy-five or so. Ain’t that right?” Before Ches could reply, Hank continued, pointing a fat finger at John Wills. “John, you probably lost about as much as Ben. Leland Pickett says he’s lost sixty or seventy. Colly Weems says about the same.” He pulled off his wide-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead with his bandanna. “All I’m gettin’ at, boys, is that unless we do something soon we gonna have nothin’ thanks to them Comancheros, and then the bank’ll take our places.” He jammed the bandanna in his hip pocket for emphasis.
Wills spoke up. “Dammit it, we don’t know them rustlers is Comancheros, Hank. That’s just the talk. Nobody’s ever cornered one of them.”
Ford grunted and nodded to Barnett. “Maybe so.” He poked his finger in his own chest. “Me, I’m at the little end of the horn … up to my neck in mortgages at the bank.” He looked around at Barnett. “I can’t hold on, and I sure ain’t ashamed to take Albert’s offer of two dollars a head andtwo fiftyan acre.”
John Wills snorted. “It ain’t a fair price. That’s what I paid for this spread eight years ago, Hank. What about the time and effort I put in. You’re loco to even consider an offer like that.” The crusty old rancher glared up at Barnett. “No offense intended, Albert, but your price ain’t nowhere near fair, all things considered.”
The well-dressed rancher nodded. When he spoke, his voice was smooth as oil. “You’re right, John. It isn’t a fair price, but you got to remember the risk I’m taking. Two dollars might not be much for stock, but if I buy your beef and those rustlers hit my place, I lose not only the cattle but I’m out whatever I paid for them.”
Hank Ford grunted. “Well, I’m taking Albert’s offer. I want something for all the work I done.” He looked at Ches Lewis. “What about you, Ches? You decide anything?”
Ches unfolded his lanky frame from his squat next to the front door of John Wills’s ranch house. He cleared his throat. “I … I don’t know, Hank. I got ever’ cent and eight years in the place. I don’t really know. Don’t seem right to chuck everything.”
Hank grinned sadly. “At least, you’d have something, Ches. We keep on going like this and every last one of us will be busted flat. I ain’t stupid. I’m selling out, and if you fellers was smart, you’d get rid of your spreads as fast as you can.”
Pushing himself away from the porch post against which he had been leaning, John Wills growled. “Not me. Not while I’m alive.” Tobacco dribbled down the sides of his lips and stained his gray beard. He spread his legs and doubled his fists. “And you, Ches Lewis. You don’t have nothing under your hat but hair if you listen to this hogwash falderal Hank is passing out.”
Hank Ford snorted. “Now, dammit, John, what I say makes sense. If you wasn’t so hardheaded, then …”
John spun on the large bellied rancher. “You go straight to hell, you fat—”
The drumming of hooves interrupted the argument. As one, all four ranchers turned to see Ben Elliott emerge from a forest of golden aspens and into the lush meadow of blue stem, a quarter of a mile below the ranch house.
October 25, 2011 Leave a comment
Although the name might suggest, there’s nothing rotten in Denmark today, fellow film enthusiasts and blog lurkers! Rotten Tomatoes is a website for critics to take aim at some of the best (and worst) film releases. Now, don’t go hurrying to your local corner store for half a dozen of these succulent, serviceable fruits. I bear far more exciting news!
Do you recall when we posted the trailer for the film adaptation of Jack Ketchum and Lucky McKee’s The Woman last week? Well, the results are here! Weighing in at an impressive 81% positive rating, critics heralded The Woman‘s film debut as nothing short of “disturbing, lurid, and perverse”—in the best way possible! V.A. Musetto of the New York Post goes on to say “horror buffs, especially fans of Ketchum, will be overcome with joy and excitement.”
The Woman is described as “excitingly unique, deeply disturbing, and beautifully macabre” according to Dustin Putman. “[Approaching] an almost Lynchian type of unsettling nightmare.” Dorchester couldn’t be happier with the surge of appreciation from film aficionados. In the words of Bill Gibron, this “surreality to celebrate” may yet become the next cult classic.
Why not make it a double feature this Halloween? Pop the popcorn and save those rotten tomatoes for another evening by curling up with a copy of The Woman. You won’t be disappointed!
Jillian—The Zombie Intern
October 24, 2011 2 Comments
The Dark Worlds of H.P. Lovecraft are perhaps the perfect treat this Halloween season. Six volumes of short stories filled with suspense, intrigue, horror, myth, cosmicism, and the arcane by a writer Stephen King has called “the twentieth century’s greatest practitioner of the classic horror tale.” Add to that the aesthetics of oral story telling, and you have yourself the perfect scary story for the campfire.
Treat yourself with to a sample listen of “Haunter of the Dark” from volume five of the Dark Worlds collection, a story from Lovecraft’s Cthulhu mythos, in which Lovecraft spars with a character created by his contemporary, Robert Bloch. Layered and complex, “Haunter of the Dark” pulls you in from the first line. “I have seen the dark universe yawning…where the black planets roll without aim…where they roll in their horror, unheeded, without knowledge or luster or name.”
October 21, 2011 Leave a comment
As All Hallows’ Eve approaches, disturbing reports have begun to surface around the globe. The ficticious tales of horror that so many readers enjoy, particularly during this ominous time of year, are often born from the imaginations of their authors, but some are born elsewhere. Some’s true origins lay in fact. Today we share the beginnings of just such a tale, that of Black Cathedral, brought to you by two masters of the realm of horror, Maynard and Sims.
It was what had happened here, and what was about to happen again, that made it obvious this was the start of it all.
There was nothing very special about the house—a medium sized English suburban semi-detached, built some time in the 1930s, complete with bay windows and a stained glass panel depicting sunrays, set in the solid green-painted front door, so that it looked like sunlight captured on grass; nothing much to set it apart from its neighbors. Except for what had happened there.
The tree lined avenue was the picture of normality; cars parked either side against the neat verges, hedges precisely clipped, a child’s bicycle on a front drive, the sound of an electric mower buzzing like a sun lazed bee. The house they were visiting looked welcoming, and would have been a pleasant place to spend the afternoon. Except for what was going to happen again.
Robert Carter hesitated, pushed open the front door and, after taking a deep inward breath, stepped into the house. Sian Davies, his assistant, followed close behind, her pad in hand, pen poised to take down notes and to keep an accurate record of events as they unfolded. Both of them were certain events would unfold.
Carter carried a small device, holding it out in front of him, sweeping the air in broad strokes, like a warrior brandishing his sword. The device looked very much like a photographer’s light meter. It was no more than three inches square and an inch deep. On one end was a small white dome, on the front a dial with calibrations from one to one thousand. But while a photographer’s meter measured light, Carter’s machine could detect the slightest changes, the tiniest fluctuations, in magnetic fields. Perfect for suspected hauntings.
Carter was thirty-five, tall and slim with an athletic physique he owed to the four hours a week he spent at the gym, combined with regular games of squash and racquets. The exercise was complemented by a healthy diet, apart from far too many cigarettes, a light intake of alcohol, and occasional sex with willing partners.
Sian Davies had none of these attributes, and none of the virtues of a healthy lifestyle. She was short, dumpy, with spiky black hair and a small tattoo of a rose on her shoulder. And she had a crush on Robert Carter the size of a small country. Yet despite their close working relationship, Carter was a total mystery to her. There were rumors of a great love affair—some forbidden passion that had ended and left Carter a scarred, emotional wreck. Some of the rumors had even linked him with Jane Talbot, Department 18’s brightest star, but Sian was not sure she set much store by them. She liked and respected Jane Talbot—aspiring in her own small way to be like her—and she knew Jane was happily married.
Sian was worldly enough to know that men like Robert Carter were always the targets for the mythmakers and rumormongers. The scurrilous stories told around the Department’s water coolers were fed and nurtured by jealousy and envy. Sian preferred her own fantasies. They sustained her during long lonely nights and gave her a reason to get up every morning. Often they weren’t the type of fantasy to share around the coffee machine at work.
“Ambient temperature in the house low and dropping rapidly.” Carter was speaking into a small microphone attached to the collar of his shirt and wired to a digital recorder he carried in his jacket pocket. As if to prove his point his breath was starting to mist in front of his face. There was also an oppressive atmosphere in the house. An atmosphere that couldn’t be measured with meters but one that was almost palpable.
He trusted the readings on the various instruments he carried, and when they read that there were disturbances in the electromagnetic fields and unusual fluctuations in temperature he knew he had something definite to deal with. The instruments had their uses, but more often than not he preferred to rely on his own feelings; the vibes—primitive instincts inherited from mankind’s prehistoric ancestors, so dulled in the majority of people to be absolutely worthless. In him they were honed to razor sharpness. So much so that he rarely began an investigation like this without careful preparation, building his mental defenses as carefully as a bricklayer builds a wall. Sometimes he worried he had built the wall so high, so strong, that nothing could penetrate it, not even if he wanted it to.
The house had been decorated some time in the 1970s, but the browns, yellows and pinks had faded with age and looked more muted now than when they were first applied. The Fleming’s, the owners of the house, were a couple in their seventies, both retired. It was Mrs. Fleming who had taken the steps to bring in the Department. Her younger brother was high up in the Whitehall pecking order, and a frantic phone call to him had set the wheels in motion. Another phone call was made to Department 18’s head, Simon Crozier, with the request that the Department investigate the house. In deference to the request, Carter—the Department’s top field man—had been sent’, even if Crozier did hate his guts.
Carter reviewed the file in his mind. Six months ago the couple started hearing things that disturbed their prosaic little life. At first it was nothing more than a few scratches on the ceiling, the odd footfall on the bedroom floor when they were both downstairs, but nothing that couldn’t be explained away rationally; a loose board settling into place, birds or mice setting up home in the eaves of the house, nothing to be alarmed about. They were both getting old and the mind could play tricks.
The smells were more alarming. According to the Flemings, the kitchen was often filled with the reek of ozone that smelled something like an electrical short circuit. In the lounge it was the odor of sour cream, and in the bedrooms the musty mud and straw smell of an animal pen. But it was the entrance hall that had the most distinctive and most repellent aroma. Mrs. Fleming described it as ‘the smell of something washed up on a beach; dead and rotten’ and, standing there in the hall, Carter had to agree. ‘God, it stinks in here,’ he said. Sian made a note in her pad.
The needle on the meter twitched significantly, leaping a quarter of the way around the dial. He frowned. “There’s a huge amount of electromagnetic energy coming from the kitchen. Let’s go take a look.”